Disillusion
by Valieara
Summary: Of tiaras and unwanted accessories. Funny how they have a way of becoming more than they seem. Companion to Thoughts on a Hat.


_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own any part of Wicked the book or musical, nor am I making any money off of this tiny story.

**_Spoilers:_** None, for once. :-)

_**Notes:**_ This can be read as a standalone, but is definitely a companion piece to _Thoughts on a Hat - _Idon't know if I really want to say "sequel". Thanks to littlesoprano for sparking this in the first place, though I doubt she'd realize it. I wasn't really intending to write more. But you know, I'm a procastinator, so I wrote this, the not as great companion piece, a little late and several months later instead of doing what I'm actually supposed to be doing, just because I really really love Glinda's tiara. Mmm, sparkly. And a quick off topic question before I go - does anyone know of a Wicked fanfic community off this site?

On that note, hope you all enjoy!

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Glinda had always played favorites with her accessories, but there were few among those she had amassed over the years she truly disliked. If she didn't like some article she saw in a store, she generally didn't buy it in the first place; if it was actually in her possession, she tried to give it away if she had not bought it for herself. Strangely, it was these that tended to attach themselves to her in the most peculiar of ways; namely, a particularly atrocious hat that she'd thought to finally get rid of when she was seventeen. Between the trinkets and articles she had acclimated and eventually given away and those she had never bought, it stood to reason that there were even fewer items among the accessories she possessed that she hated.

Glinda hated her tiara.

Oh, it was pretty, it was alluring, yes, with its diamonds and sapphires and clear cut gems. For one so pretty herself to wear it, she became regal. How could any person not love one who wore such an item upon her head? How could anyone not trust her, believe her?

She had a secret. The diamonds and sapphires were false. Fake. A façade. She was one of three people who knew.

They were so pretty, so realistic, so blinding that no one even thought to suspect. They were set in that gorgeous crown in that way on purpose, allure with a reason; it became an illusion, a façade set up to beckon the unsuspecting closer, nearer, until it was too late - blinded by the brilliance and clarity of the gems, they were ensnared in the trap. But such a pretty trap, and so successful: there was only within the group of ensnared one who knew she was well and truly caught, and that was the one who wore it herself.

It was not something new to Glinda, it didn't surprise her. No, she'd always known. It was the realization that was sudden, that final comprehension that grasped at her and made her heart start to pound in apprehension at what had been suppressed.

She could feel it sitting heavily on her head, an unrelenting pressure, twining itself around those ridiculously flawless curls, constricting around the crown of her head like Madame Morrible's arm about her waist. She could see evil, could see it marching away toward Kiamo Ko, could feel it tightening like a claw about her waist. Reaching toward the balcony railing, straining away from it, she couldn't get away; the only thing she could do was twist away in horror at what she'd unwittingly become. Away from what she was. _Let me go let me go_; a stream of unintelligible pleas ran soundlessly through her mind. It wouldn't let her go.

Entrapped by her own façade, yes, terrible enough; now entrapped by another's – to have always been trapped by another's, unrealizing – worse. These games were dangerous to play, like petty power hungry girls at school – but with larger, much heavier consequences.

_You wanted this from the very beginning_, it hissed in her ear.

_Now you're getting what you wanted..._

She didn't remember wanting this.

It clenched her waist tighter; she strained further. She managed to break away, and ran, too terrified to bother with looking back; too preoccupied with horror at what she'd done, with the idea she could somehow redeem herself... and others. The crown on her head grew heavier.

What was the point of having a beautiful crown that held no meaning and false jewels? Surely it couldn't even compete with a drab black hat in all its unadulterated repulsiveness, if only because of its worn and tired authenticity.

She really wasn't too fond of that hat at the moment, either; but she and that hat had a history. It had been hers, after all. Once, a very long time ago. It had been among the items she had managed to give away; but it had managed to remain and haunt her, becoming a symbol of something she became sure over time she didn't want to lose. Even now, it was something that hung over her head. The only difference between the past and present was that it had gone from haunting only her to haunting the population of Oz, unsettling to both of them for entirely different reasons. What would the people of Oz say if they knew she herself had worn that icon, tipped it affectionately, in jest - had even loved the person who'd made it such an icon?

It certainly didn't belong to the person who claimed it now, it was in the hands and on the head of the wrong green girl. Elphie wasn't her, the one who wrongly wore it. She who had embraced her halfheartedly after five years – something that Glinda, in the midst of her own desperate embrace, hadn't given more than a second's thought – and run off again without so much as a goodbye. She who had taken away the one person left Glinda had to care about, love, hold on to, with a weak and awkward explanation. She who had stormed back into her life and immediately begun degrading her, insulting her, yelling at her face until Glinda was backed into a metaphorical wall, wide-eyed with confusion and fright. She who'd seen it, and kept advancing.

Glinda couldn't believe it, didn't want to; so she didn't. She'd come to be very good at that.

The woman wearing the hat didn't deserve it, she hadn't earned it – there had been no tears, no emotion, no tenderness that had gone into wearing that hat. It had been Elphie's to wear, and Elphie's to give. Elphie would not have given it to this woman. Glinda had nearly become hysterical, attacking the green woman and tearing the hat off her head, beating her with it. _It isn't yours, it never will be yours, you don't understand, you can't understand._

_She wouldn't have hurt me the way you have._

Had the hat become what the tiara was to her? A terrible burden, an icon of a façade? Had she changed so much, had such things become meaningless to her? Or was it really Elphie, hiding behind what shelter she thought the hat would afford her, knowing Glinda would see and remember? She had been strange like that at first, unattuned to others feelings, but had later grown out of it. Maybe she'd fallen back into it, maybe it was her strange way of trying to force the Glinda she remembered out from behind the curls, the makeup, the jewels. She never had been the first one to give in.

The more disturbing question was that of Elphie really believing that she herself was this strange woman – detached, unfeeling. Certainly, neither of them were the same girls, the friends that either remembered. Seeing what Glinda had become, she retreated behind her hat; Glinda remained in thrall to her tiara. It owned her, controlled her, strangled her; the green woman was as terrified of it as Glinda was herself.

Somehow, Glinda had thought that if the hat was torn off, she'd have to change, she'd prove she was Elphie, she wouldn't have anything to hide behind anymore. But she hadn't changed, or magically morphed back into the person she'd known - nor had Glinda done her the same courtesy. She hadn't understood that terror, that shock of betrayal. It was Elphie.

Moreover, it was her hat. Choking back tears of anger, she'd hurled it back at her as Elphie brushed past, escaping.

She understands, now, and she runs, terrified and driven harshly onward by an overwhelming and overpowering need that consumes her – to make her understand, to make her see reason, to make her surrender, to make her live. Nessa lays long dead in the ground, Fiyero hangs tortured, maybe dead, on a pole in the middle of nowhere. Elphaba waits in a castle for her own death.

She flies down the stone staircase and can see the woman pacing agitatedly. She recoils almost unnoticeably as she catches sight of Glinda and tries to keep up her façade, but Glinda doesn't relent. She wishes she'd taken off her tiara. The woman tries to back her against the wall again, but Glinda stands firm. Again, the woman starts, and seems to flicker for a moment, but does not relent.

"_I am the Wicked Witch of the West!" _she cries hysterically. Not so unlike Glinda; both had been forced into stiff icons, become captive to them, been forced to believe them themselves. The hysterics are merely a terrible side effect. Her resolve stiffens further.

Until the woman receives news of Fiyero, Glinda holds her own. But now, Glinda breaks, and she's sure the woman sees her; Glinda feels her world crashing down around her, and can't bring herself to care about the fact that she's lost, and lost everything. Nessa dead, Fiyero dead, Elphaba dead. Only more death. Soon enough she'll be dead too.

It's the fact that the woman gives up first, for the first time in her life, that brings her back to reality and the present. It's an awful thing to witness, and Glinda is stunned by the realization that this was what she wanted. She can see the woman shudder and metamorphose back into her old friend. And suddenly there is Elphie, as broken, downtrodden, and grief-stricken as herself. They stare at each other, and she gently brushes the brim of Elphie's hat.

Elphie looks back at her as their hands meet, and her eyes flicker for a moment. They remember, they understand.

Then a whirlwind of sound, clamor, clichéd and all the more frightening pitchforks and torches, light and shadows dancing closer, Elphie pushing her away, finger raised to her lips. And suddenly, she's gone. All that's left is a hat. A symbol, left for her, ambiguous in meaning. She hopes she interprets it correctly; she refuses to consider the alternative.

All Glinda has now is a hat and a tiara. She deserves neither, but steels herself to bear both before she leaves, not wanting to return. When she does return to reclaim her hat for the last time, she finds it gone.

She can't help herself; she collapses again and cries.


End file.
